The Bane Chronicles

by Cassandra Clare

  Valentine said slowly, “Did you not promise me unconditional obedience? Tell me, what use have I for a second-in-­command who undermines me like this?”

  “Valentine, I love you and I share your grief,” said Lucian. “I know you are a good man. I know if you stop and think, you will see that this is madness.”

  When Valentine took a step toward him, Lucian took a step back. He curved his hand protectively over the werewolf girl’s head as she clung to him with her small legs locked around his waist, and his other hand wavered as if he might go for his weapon.

  “Very well,” Valentine said gently, at last. “Have it your way.”

  He stood aside to let Lucian Graymark pass through the door and out into the corridor, and back into the room where the werewolves had thought they might be safe. He let Lucian bring the werewolves’ daughter back to them, and followed him at a distance.

  Magnus did not trust Valentine for an instant. He would not believe the girl was safe until she was in her mother’s arms.

  Lucian Graymark had bought Magnus enough time to gather up his magic. Magnus concentrated, felt his skin knit even as his power drained away.

  He pulled himself up from the floor, and ran after them.

  The fight in the room they had left was quieter, because there were so many dead. Someone had managed to turn the lights back on. There was a wolf lying dead on the ground, transforming inch by inch into a pale young man. Another young man lay dead beside him, one of the Circle, and in death they did not look so different.

  Many of the Shadowhunters in Valentine’s Circle were still standing. None of the Whitelaws were. Maryse Lightwood had her face in her hands. Some of the others were visibly shaken. Now the shadows and the frenzy of battle had receded, and they were left in the light to look at what they had done.

  “Valentine,” Maryse said, her voice imploring as her leader approached. “Valentine, what have we done? The Whitelaws are dead. . . . Valentine . . .”

  They all looked to Valentine as he approached, clustered up to him like frightened children rather than adults. Valentine must have gotten hold of them very young, Magnus thought, but he found himself unable to care if they were brainwashed or deluded, not after what they had done. It seemed like there was no pity left in him.

  “You have done nothing but try to uphold the Law,” said Valentine. “You know that all traitors to our kind must pay one day. If they had chosen to step aside, to trust us, their fellow children of the Angel, all would have been well.”

  “What about the Clave?” said the curly-haired man, a note of challenge in his voice.

  “Michael,” murmured Maryse’s husband.

  “What of them, Wayland?” Valentine asked, his voice sharp. “The Whitelaws died because of rogue werewolves. It is the truth, and we will tell the Clave so.”

  The only one of Valentine’s Circle not desperately listening was Lucian Graymark. He made his way to the werewolf woman, and placed the little girl into her arms. Magnus heard the woman’s indrawn breath as she saw her daughter’s eyes. He heard her begin to cry softly. Lucian stood beside the mother and daughter, looking deeply distressed, then crossed the floor with a suddenly determined tread.

  “Let’s go, Valentine,” he said. “All this with the Whitelaws was . . . was a terrible accident. We can’t have our Circle suffering for it. We should go now. These creatures aren’t worth your time, not any of them. These werewolves are just strays who broke off from their pack. You and I will go hunting in the werewolf encampment where the real threat lies tonight. We will bring down the pack leader together.”

  “Together. But tomorrow night. Come back to the house tonight?” Valentine asked in a low voice. “Jocelyn has something to tell you.”

  Lucian clasped Valentine’s arm, clearly relieved. “Of course. Anything for Jocelyn. Anything for either of you. You know that.”

  “My friend,” said Valentine, “I do.”

  Valentine clasped Lucian’s arm in return, but Magnus saw the look Valentine gave Lucian. There was love in that look, but hate as well, and the hate was winning. It was as clear as a silvery shark’s fin in the dark waters of Valentine’s black eyes. There was death in those eyes.

  Magnus was not surprised. He had seen many monsters who could love, but only a few who had let that love change them, who had been able to alchemize love for one person into kindness for many.

  He remembered Valentine’s face as the Circle’s leader had cut Marian Whitelaw into bloody halves, and Magnus wondered what it would be like, living with someone like Valentine, wondered what it was like for his wife, who Marian had described as lovely. You could share your bed with a monster, lay your head on the same pillow next to a head filled with murder and madness. Magnus had done it himself.

  But love that blind did not last. One day you lifted your head from the pillow and saw you were living in a nightmare.

  Lucian Graymark might be the only one of the lot worth bothering with, and Magnus would bet he was as good as dead.

  Magnus had been so terribly wrong to let the past deceive him; he’d been wrong to think that the one with depths of goodness in him was Stephen Herondale. Magnus looked at Stephen, at his beautiful face and his weak mouth. Magnus had a sudden impulse to tell the Shadowhunter that Magnus knew and loved his ancestor, that Tessa would be so disappointed in him. But he did not want Valentine’s Circle to remember or go after Tessa.

  Magnus said nothing. Stephen Herondale had chosen his side, and Magnus had chosen his.

  Valentine’s Circle withdrew from the warehouse, marching like a little army.

  Magnus ran to where old Adam Whitelaw lay in a pool of blood, his shining axe lying, dull and still, in the same dark pool.

  “Marian?” Adam asked. Magnus went to his knees in the pool, hands searching to find and close the worst of the wounds. There were so many—too many.

  Magnus looked at Adam’s eyes, where the light was going out, and knew Adam read the answer on his face before Magnus could think to lie to him.

  “My brother?” Adam asked. “The—the children?”

  Magnus looked around the room at the dead. When he looked back, Adam Whitelaw had turned his face away and set his mouth so that he would not betray either pain or grief. Magnus used all the magic he had left to ease the man’s pain, and in the end Adam lifted a hand and stilled Magnus’s, rested his head against Magnus’s arm.

  “Enough, warlock,” he said, his voice rasping. “I would not—I would not live if I could.” He coughed, a wet terrible sound, and shut his eyes.

  “Ave atque vale, Shadowhunter,” Magnus whispered. “Your angel would be proud.”

  Adam Whitelaw did not seem to hear. It was only a very short time later that the last of the Whitelaws died in Magnus’s arms.

  The Clave believed that the Whitelaws had been killed by rogue werewolves, and nothing Magnus said made any difference. He had not expected them to believe him. He hardly knew why he spoke out, except that the Nephilim so clearly preferred that he be silent.

  Magnus waited for the Circle to return.

  The Circle did not come to New York again, but Magnus did see them one more time. He saw them at the Uprising.

  Not long after the night in the warehouse, Lucian Graymark disappeared as if he had died, and Magnus assumed he had. Then a year later Magnus had word of Lucian again. Ragnor Fell told Magnus there was a werewolf who had once been a Shadowhunter, and that he was spreading word that the time had come, that Downworld had to be ready to fight the Circle. Valentine unveiled his plan and armed his Circle at the time when the Accords of peace between Nephilim and Downworlders were to be signed again. His Circle cut down Shadowhunters and Downworlders alike in the Great Hall of the Angel.

  Thanks to Lucian Graymark’s warning, Downworlders were able to rush into the Hall and surprise Valentine’s Circle. They’d been forewarned
and also heavily forearmed.

  The Shadowhunters surprised Magnus then, as the Whitelaws had surprised him before. The Clave did not abandon the Downworlders and turn to join with the Circle. The vast majority of them, the Clave and the Institute leaders, made the choice the Whitelaws had made before them. They fought for their sworn allies and for peace, and Valentine’s Circle was defeated.

  But once the battle was done, the Shadowhunters blamed Downworlders for the deaths of so many of their people, as if the battle had been Downworld’s idea. The Shadowhunters prided themselves on their justice, but their justice for Magnus’s kind was always bitter.

  Relations between the Nephilim and Downworld did not improve. Magnus despaired that they ever would.

  Especially when the Clave sent the last remaining members of the Circle, the Lightwoods and another Circle member called Hodge Starkweather, to Magnus’s city, to atone for their crimes by running the New York Institute as exiles from the Glass City. The Shadowhunters were scarce enough after the massacre, and could not be replenished without the Mortal Cup, which seemed to have been lost with Valentine. The Lightwoods knew that they had been treated mercifully due to their high connections in the Clave, and that if they slipped up once, the Clave would crush them.

  Raphael Santiago of the vampires, who owed Magnus a favor or twenty, reported that the Lightwoods were distant but scrupulously fair with every Downworlder they came into contact with. Magnus knew that sooner or later he would have to work with them, would learn to be civil to them, but he preferred that it be later. The whole bloody tragedy of Valentine’s Circle was over, and Magnus would rather not look back on the darkness but look forward and hope for light.

  For more than two years after the Uprising, Magnus didn’t see any of Valentine’s Circle again. Until he did.

  New York City, 1993

  The life of warlocks was one of immortality, magic, glamour, and excitement through the ages.

  Sometimes, though, Magnus wanted to stay in and watch television on the sofa like everyone else. He was curled up on the sofa with Tessa, and they were watching a video of Pride and Prejudice. Tessa was complaining at some length about how the book was better.

  “This is not what Jane Austen would have wanted,” Tessa told him. “If she could see this, I am certain she would be horrified.”

  Magnus uncurled from the sofa and went to stand by the window. He was expecting some Chinese to be delivered, and he was starving from a long day of idleness and debauchery. He did not see a deliveryman, though. The only person on the street was a young woman carrying a baby wrapped up tight against the cold. She was walking fast, no doubt on her way home.

  “If Jane Austen could see this,” Magnus said, “I assume she would be screaming, ‘There are tiny demons in this little box! Fetch a clergyman!’ and hitting the television with her parasol.”

  The doorbell rang, and Magnus turned away from the window.

  “Finally,” Magnus said, grabbing a ten-dollar bill from a table near the door, and he buzzed the deliveryman in. “I need some beef and broccoli before I face any more Mr. Darcy. It’s a truth universally acknowledged that if you watch too much television on an empty stomach, your head falls off.”

  “If your head fell off,” Tessa said, “the hairdressing industry would go into an economic meltdown.”

  Magnus nodded and touched his hair, which was now in a chin-length sweep. He opened the door, still in his pose, and found himself staring at a woman with a crown of red curls. She was holding a child. She was the woman he had seen on the street moments ago. Magnus was startled to see someone at his door who looked so . . . mundane.

  The young woman was dressed in sloppy jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt. She lowered her hand, which had been raised as if to knock on the door, and Magnus saw the flicker of faded, silvery scars on her arm. Magnus had seen far too many of those to ever be mistaken.

  She bore Covenant Marks, carried the remnants of old runes on her skin like mementos. She was not mundane in the least, then. She was a Shadowhunter, but a Shadowhunter bearing no fresh Marks, not dressed in gear.

  She was not here on official Shadowhunter business. She was trouble.

  “Who are you?” Magnus demanded.

  She swallowed, and replied, “I am—I was Jocelyn Morgenstern.”

  The name conjured up memories years old. Magnus remembered the blade going into his back and the taste of blood. It made him want to spit.

  The monster’s bride at his door. Magnus could not stop staring.

  She was staring too. She seemed transfixed by his pajamas. Magnus was frankly offended. He had not invited any wives of crazed hate-cult leaders to come around and pass judgment on his wardrobe. If he wished to forgo a shirt and wear scarlet drawstring pajamas patterned with black polar bears, and a black silk bed jacket, he could do so. None of the others who had been lucky enough to see Magnus in his bedroom attire had ever complained.

  “I don’t remember ordering the bride of an evil maniac,” said Magnus. “It was definitely beef and broccoli. What about you, Tessa? Did you order the bride of an evil maniac?”

  He swung the door open wider so Tessa could see who was there. Nothing else was said for a moment. Then Magnus saw the blanket-covered lump in Jocelyn’s arms stir. It was in that moment that he remembered there was a child.

  “I have come here, Magnus Bane,” Jocelyn said, “to beg your aid.”

  Magnus gripped the edge of the door until his knuckles went white.

  “Let me think,” he said. “No.”

  He was stopped by Tessa’s voice, soft. “Let her in, Magnus,” she said.

  Magnus wheeled around to look at Tessa. “Seriously?”

  “I want to speak with her.”

  Tessa’s voice had taken on a strange tone. Also, the delivery person had just appeared in the hall carrying their bag of food. Magnus nodded Jocelyn inside, handed over the ten dollars, and shut the door on the confused man’s face before he had a chance to hand over the food.

  Now Jocelyn stood awkwardly by the door. The tiny person in her arms kicked its feet and stretched its legs.

  “You have a baby,” Magnus said, pointing out what was now obvious.

  Jocelyn shifted uncomfortably and clutched the baby to her chest.

  Tessa padded toward them silently and stood by Jocelyn. Even though she wore black leggings and an oversize gray T-shirt that read WILLIAM WANTS A DOLL, she still always carried an air of formality and authority about her. The shirt, as it happened, was a feminist statement that boys liked to play with dolls and girls with trucks, but Magnus suspected she had chosen it partly because of the name. Tessa’s husband had been dead for long enough that his name brought back happy, faded memories instead of the raw agony she had felt for years after his passing. Other warlocks had loved and lost, but few were as hopelessly faithful as Tessa. Decades later she had not allowed anyone else to even come close to winning her heart.

  “Jocelyn Fairchild,” Tessa said. “Descended from Henry Branwell and Charlotte Fairchild.”

  Jocelyn blinked as if she had not been expecting a lecture on her own genealogy.

  “That’s right,” she said cautiously.

  “I knew them, you see,” Tessa explained. “You have a great look of Henry.”

  “Knew them? Then you must be . . .”

  Henry had been dead for the better part of a century, and Tessa looked no older than twenty-five.

  “Are you a warlock too, then?” Jocelyn asked suspiciously. Magnus saw her eyes drift from the top of Tessa’s head to her feet, searching for a demon’s mark, the sign that would indicate to Shadowhunters that she was unclean, inhuman, and to be despised. Some warlocks could hide their marks under their clothes, but Jocelyn could look at as much of Tessa as she wished and never find a mark.

  Tessa did not draw herself up obtrusively, but it was cl
ear suddenly that Tessa was taller than Jocelyn was, and her gray eyes could be very cold.

  “I am,” said Tessa. “I am Theresa Gray, daughter of a Greater Demon and Elizabeth Gray, who was born Adele Starkweather, one of your kind. I was the wife of William Herondale, who was the head of the London Institute, and I was the mother of James and Lucie Herondale. Will and I raised our Shadowhunter children to protect mundanes, to live by the Laws of Clave and Covenant, and to keep to the Accords.”

  She spoke in the way she well knew how, in the manner of the Nephilim.

  “Once, I lived among the Shadowhunters,” Tessa said softly. “Once I might almost have seemed like a person to you.”

  Jocelyn looked lost, in the way that people did when they learned something so strange that the whole world seemed unfamiliar.

  “I understand if you find my crimes against Downworlders unforgivable,” Jocelyn said, “but I—I have nowhere else to go. And I need help. My daughter needs your help. She is a Shadowhunter and Valentine’s daughter. She cannot live among her own kind. We can never go back. I need a spell to shield her eyes from all but the mundane world. She can grow up safe and happy in the mundane world. She never needs to know what her father was.” Jocelyn almost choked, but she lifted her chin and added, “Or what her mother did.”

  “So you come begging to us,” Magnus said. “The monsters.”

  “I have no quarrel with Downworlders,” Jocelyn said at last. “I . . . my best friend is a Downworlder, and I do not believe he is so changed from the person I always loved. I was wrong. I’ll have to live forever with what I did. But please, my daughter did nothing.”

  Her best friend, the Downworlder. Magnus supposed that Lucian Graymark was still alive, then, though nobody had seen him since the Uprising. Magnus thought a little better of Jocelyn for claiming him as her best friend. People did say she and Lucian had planned to defeat Valentine together, though Jocelyn had not been there to confirm the rumor after the ­battle. Magnus had not seen Jocelyn during the Uprising. He had not known whether to believe the claim or not.